


Midnight in Poland

by esmeeeeme



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, pre-SHIELD, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmeeeeme/pseuds/esmeeeeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The master archer. The master assassin. The Hawk. The predator. The monster. Either title meant the same thing. He was still the hired weapon everyone feared of encountering. Not that they'd ever know, they'd be dead by the time they knew they had. Pre-Avengers. One shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight in Poland

Midnight in Poland

* * *

Clint Barton had a very dark troubled past. Darker than you could ever think. He had thoughts, memories that were too dark for most people to know.

He has seen it all. Death. Life. Murder. Crime. Justice. And more death.

Like any other human, he has memories. But his memories were far from the typical apple pie lifestyle. There was no family dinners to look forward to when coming home or football games with the guys on Sunday nights. None of that. He had darker memories than anyone even thought of seeing first hand.

His memories were tainted. Memories of witnessing someone dying, causing death, and hurting others. Torture, fighting, exhaustion, pain, despair and many sleepless nights. He would wipe off blood... Blood that was often not his own.

He had many scars, some that you can see, some that you can't. Scars that came from fights, both physical and mental ones.

For any normal man, the burden of being a carrier of death could have caused a mental breakdown eventually, and a deep moral dilemma. Somehow, Clint made it through. Then again, he wasn't a normal man. He would never be. Because well, hell he was raised in a circus. Nothing was ever normal.

During his darkest days, he held it together externally. No emotions shown through. Even though he was falling apart internally like wood in a fire.

Over the years, he earned a name. One that brought many shivers down the enemies backs.

Hawkeye.

At least the ones that had heard of him, feared him, often he was just a whisper in the wind with no real name or face.

The master assassin with a bow and arrow. He can see his targets from a distance. Just like the bird of prey. And kill without ever being seen.

He was the master archer. A master assassin. Either title meant the same thing: he was still a hired gun.

Clint held an external shell, a shell of indifference. He was an assassin, a paid one. If he even dared show emotion in the outside, that meant one thing: danger and possible death. He wouldn't allow the enemy to harm him. By the time they were about to pull the trigger, an arrow would have already been shot into them.

The master archer. The master assassin. The Hawk. The predator. The monster. Either title meant the same thing.

He was still the hired weapon everyone feared of encountering. Not that they'd ever know, they'd be dead by the time they knew they had.

* * *

Polish, mid thirties, male, blond hair, average height. Drug lord.

In black ink, there was one word under the picture: deceased.

Another target taken out.

Another job done.

Clint Barton looked at the folder with the picture of the fallen target. Deceased. Dead. Gone. An arrow through the heart and the man was dead. Quick and easy, the target was taken out like any other job.

An arrow straight to the heart.

This time through a drug lord that was about to get even more powerful, and who was expanding his trade into arms deals as well. That just wasn't going to be allowed.

He glanced at his bow on the table. The same bow he grew to care for in the past few years. The same bow that has taken so many lives, and yet has become his constant companion. He always put it up carefully, making sure it was taken care of.

It was a part of him. He wouldn't be himself without it. Without the bow, he wouldn't be here.

But the dead target would...

The target had a small family. A wife and a little baby. They were away for the weekend when Clint had gone and killed the target. They had gone to the city to visit some family. The target stayed behind, taking care of some last minute errands and paperwork.

Clint was ready, he had his view from atop a building on the same block as their hotel. Obscure from the view of anyone that could randomly look up. All he had to do was wait for the wife to leave with her baby.

And when they did, the arrow was out of the bow and into the man's chest.

Finally, the wife and child walked out of the hotel, the man had just came down to walk them out of the hotel and to say goodbye. Little did they know it would be for the last time.

When the man's back turned, and the wife and child were gone down the street, he shot the arrow.

As expected, shouts of heavily accented Polish bystanders broke out. It was a small block after all. People ran frantically over to the man, yelling in Polish and beginning to call for help.

And then Clint was gone. Just like he was never there.

That had all happened hours ago, early into the evening.

He could imagine the aftermath. The mother was going to be a widow. Alone without a man in the house, unless she re-married of course. But he saw the look of affection in her eyes when they parted ways. He doubted that she would baby was going to grow up without a father. The baby was only four months old. A small, practically newborn child. But for now they were happy, innocent and unaware of their father/husband's job or fate.

They were away from the hotel. That meant they would return. And when they did, they would get the news that the most important man in their life was found lying dead on the ground with an arrow through their heart.

That's the main part he hated about his job; his targets sometimes had people that cared for them.

He always avoided harming the families. That was a part of his own code. The death of their loved ones was bad enough. Other assassins he knew would kill the entire families, not even batting an eye. But no. He couldn't bear kill a child. Or a woman. He just couldn't.

_A small family..._

When the target was dead, he reported to his employers and he was done. He was aware of his payment to be given to him the next morning. Clint knew he was well hidden in the clandestine safe house in the woods, so talking on the phone about his job wasn't dangerous or exposing.

Feeling guilty after a job was normal. It was being human after all. But he tried his best to avoid it. But to him, guilt is like the air; you know it's there, but you can't see it. His line of work made him get used to the blood and death, but that didn't mean it didn't bother him.

He was human. It was natural for a him to be bothered by death, especially when he caused it himself.

He could stop. He had enough money to survive for a year or so. Refuse a job, go into hiding. Just disappear from the face of earth. Well, from where he's not being searched anyway. But no matter what happens, fate came around to bite him in the ass.

_A small, innocent, oblivious family..._

Clint ran his hand through his hair, overwhelmed.

He could see it now, see what is left of that small family and what they would be doing about now. The wife will be grieving about her husband. The baby confused. Then the rest of the man's family would mourn at the funeral. Probably happening around the next few days.

_No. Stop it. Don't think that way._

Human. It was all being human. It was natural to feel guilt.

Even if it happened at 12 o'clock in the morning in the woods of Poland.

But hasn't the death of one man, saved the lives of many others?


End file.
